


All That I Have

by orphan_account



Series: Midnight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lestrade is killed in an investigation and Mycroft commits suicide, Sherlock comes to terms with his relationship with John.  Alone is what he has, alone protects him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” The door closed gently, Sherlock now safely encased in his room. What the hell was happening? Had he just received a call informing him that Greg Lestrade was dead? Dead. In the morgue, at Bart’s. Mycroft. He needed to call Mycroft.

***

“Dead? What do you mean, dead? How? What happened?” John was baffled and stunned. How the hell could Greg be dead?

“Yes, John. Dead. He was killed by the suspect he was chasing.” Sherlock sounded annoyed. “I told him to take me. Dammit. Stupid, Lestrade, stupid.”

“Stop it Sherlock. You are not responsible for this. Greg knew the dangers and he chose to go.” John sank into his armchair trying to comprehend the news. Greg Lestrade, his good friend, was gone.

“I know I’m not responsible John. However, if I had been there, we both know this wouldn’t have happened.”

Silence filled the room. There may be some truth to what Sherlock said, but neither really wanted to acknowledge it. Not now.

“What about Mycroft? How did he handle it?” Sherlock had been with Mycroft at the morgue at Bart’s to see the body.

“I don’t know.” What?

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“What the hell does that mean Sherlock?”

“It means that he saw the body, and he stood silent for a moment, thanked Molly and then left.”

“So, in shock then. Have you spoken to him since?” It had been just a few hours since Sherlock had returned from Bart’s.

“No.”

“Sherlock, you need to be there for Mycroft. Call him or text him. Hell, go to his house. He needs you, now more than ever.” How the hell could Sherlock not know this?

“No John, Mycroft does not need me. He will deal with it on his own. That’s how we are.”

John sighed. He would never understand the way the Holmes’ dealt with emotions.

“Sherlock, Mycroft has just lost his partner. No matter what the two of you say or how you act, I know that both of you are capable of love. Mycroft loved Greg and now Greg is gone. He needs support. You are his brother and he needs you.” Seriously, had these two people ever been shown love by their parents or were they raised by wolves?

“John, don’t presume to tell me what my brother needs. He and I are more similar than either of us cares to admit and I know him. He needs to be alone.”

John breathed in a heavy sigh. Slowly he rose from his chair and stood, taking a few minutes to watch Sherlock stand at the window, staring out onto Baker Street.

Quietly he said, “I know if I lost you, I would need as much support as I could get to make it through.” And with that, he turned and headed to the bedroom, the one he now shared with Sherlock.

Sherlock only slightly twisted his head at the statement and listened as John left the room. Sentiment. A baffling wonder he may never figure out.

Nevertheless, he pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and quickly typed out a text.

_I am here for you brother. You need only ask. SH_


	2. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to support Mycroft through Greg's death, with help from John. Something they never imaged begins to happen and they struggle through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Borrowed from earlgreywithcream's "Echoes"._

At Lestrade’s funeral, Sherlock sat beside his brother and watched him fall apart. Tears stained his brother’s cheeks and he hardly seemed to be the man Sherlock knew. He was hard pressed to recall any time in his life that he had seen Mycroft cry. He wasn’t sure what to do for him; they’d never been particularly close but when Mycroft leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock knew he could do no more for his brother.

The months went by slowly. Without Lestrade, cases came in more slowly. Sally was promoted to DI in Greg’s place but her personal feelings towards Sherlock meant she only rarely asked him for help. Dimmock seemed to be willing to work with Sherlock, but he fussed too much over what he should and shouldn’t ask Sherlock for help on. Meanwhile, cases came through John’s blog and occasionally through Sherlock’s website, but life just seemed to slow down.

John insisted that he and Sherlock play nursemaid to Mycroft. It annoyed him to no end but for the sake of peace in Baker Street he went along with John’s wishes. So they visited Mycroft, who more and more was keeping himself to his office, refusing to go to his flat, and had even stopped what few visits he made to 221B Baker Street.

It was obvious that Mycroft was slipping into a pit of despair, no longer eating or sleeping with much regularity. He was thinner than either Sherlock or John had ever seen him, and dark circles had taken up permanent residence under his eyes. He was a ghost of the man he used to be – there was no energy about him, no spark in his eyes, his movements slowed so much that it looked as if it took every ounce of energy he had to raise a tea cup to his lips. That is, when John could get him to consume anything. The depression that filled his every fiber was evident to John but even more startling to Sherlock. It seemed to take a deep root somewhere inside of Sherlock, as if it were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmmm.”

“Mycroft needs help - professional help. More than we can give him.”

“He’ll never do it, John. Too much alike, remember?”

“Well, then you need to talk to him. He has to talk about Greg. He can’t keep going this way. He’s going to hurt himself.”

“No, he won’t. But I will try to talk to him.”

***

_“Mycroft.” he snaps back into reality at the harsh tone in his brother’s voice. “Are you back?”_

_“Yes, I do apologize, it was not my intention to..drift.” he force a smile that he hopes will fool his brother but knows all too well that it will not._

_“We need to talk.” he sees the concern in his brothers eyes but slowly shakes his head._

_“About what exactly?”_

_“Lestrade.” Mycroft’s eyes narrow and he takes a step closer to Sherlock and looks him straight in the eyes._

_“He is no longer any concern of yours,” he keeps his voice steady and tries to keep his breathing even. “From now on you will stay out of this.”_

_He had had enough._ *


	3. The End, But Only The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is gone and Sherlock retreats into himself. John is very patient.

Two weeks later, Sherlock received an odd voice mail from Mycroft.

“John, Mycroft left me a voice mail.”

“Okay. What did he say?”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s eyes widened as the realization dawned on him. Mycroft really wasn’t okay.

“Dear God Sherlock, we have to get to him. Now.”

***

Banging on the door to Mycroft’s flat, ringing the buzzer had elicited no response. What if he was too late? He took a step back and slammed his body against the door with as much force as he could muster. The door swung open and Sherlock rushed into the flat, quickly followed by John.

“Mycroft!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, as the sound of a single shot rang out. “Oh god”, he whispered to himself. 

Standing in the doorway to Mycroft’s bedroom, he saw the body. Mycroft was on his back; obviously he had been sitting on the edge of the bed. A single shot to the left temple. The gun lay on the pristine white Egyptian cotton, loosely grasped in Mycroft’s hand. Lestrade’s gun. Sherlock took a tentative step forward. “Mycroft…Mycroft.” His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. God, this couldn’t be happening. Can’t have happened. “No. Mycroft, why?” Sherlock inched forward, his mind reeling.

Behind him, he heard John gasp. “No.”

***

Sherlock couldn’t seem to bring himself to go through Mycroft’s flat and dispense with all his worldly possessions, so he let John take the lead. Most of it was donated or sold, based on its worth. There wasn’t anything odd or disconcerting in Mycroft’s personal items and John found he was confused as to why Sherlock couldn’t help. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the sentiment or he just couldn’t be arsed to bother. Either was as likely as reason as the other.

John found the ring on the floor, under the bed, where it had fallen from Mycroft’s hand once his body went slack. It was titanium with a green line that separated it into two halves. John took it to Sherlock, who had no idea that Mycroft was planning on proposing to Lestrade but the knowledge of it seemed to shock him to his core. 

Besides the ring that Mycroft had intended for Greg, John found the ring Greg had purchased for Mycroft. He laughed at the irony. Both men wanted the same future and were planning on taking the lead to get it. He wondered how that would have played out if they had both lived.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was more withdrawn than usual. Mycroft’s funeral had been a graveside service only, with a few close friends in attendance. Surprisingly, Greg’s daughter came and spoke with Sherlock after, telling him that Mycroft had confessed he was still in love with Greg after his death. As stoic as ever, Sherlock listened but had no response; John quietly thanked the young girl and watched her walk away, shaking his head at the tragedy of it all.


	4. Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is moody and John is still very patient, but things come to a head.

Sherlock couldn’t get the image out of his mind. His brother, dead, with a bullet through his head, sprawled on the bed he shared with the DI. Is that the fate that awaited him and John? If he and his brother were so alike, is that how it would end for him if John were to go before him? Their lifestyle was dangerous and both liked it that way. Greg’s had been dangerous too, but not nearly as much as Sherlock’s and John’s, since Greg was afforded the protection of the Met and their mundane policies. He wasn’t as free as Sherlock or John to go traipsing about London on the heels of a criminal.

With Moriarity at his back, Sherlock felt he had no control. He loved John. Of that he was certain, as certain as he was that John loved him in return.  


He grew ever more distance from John and he knew John noticed. But John never questioned him on it. Perhaps he thought that this was Sherlock’s way of mourning the death of his brother, and in a way it was. The heavy weight of despair and wondering “what if” for the two of them drew him into a depression of his own. He began to seek more and more time away from John, putting space between them. The only question to come from John during that time was a simple query if he was using drugs again. Otherwise, John remained the same and tried to give Sherlock the space to deal with things himself, knowing that pushing would only cause him to retreat even further and for the whole process to take even longer.

The months continued to drag by and then the night at the pool changed everything. Before him, dripped in the heavy burden of explosives, was John, kidnapped and used by Moriarity to get to Sherlock. It was the last straw.

***

Three days after the incident at the pool, Sherlock stomped into the sitting room of 221B, squared himself in front of John’s chair and spoke the most he had to John in three months’ time. “John, this isn’t working and I want you to move out. You can have until the end of the month, but I need you gone by then. You can take whatever money you need to move from the joint account; Mycroft left us plenty.”

John, looked up from his paper, mouth agape, eyes open wide from shock. He sat solidly still for a good minute before the words finally took hold and he threw the paper down onto the floor, with a rush to get out of the chair. He stood and faced Sherlock, shoulders straight, not backing down from the man despite their height difference.

“Excuse me, what?”

“John, I said I need you to move out.”

“Oh no, Sherlock. I heard that. What I didn’t hear was the reason why.”

“Yes you did. I told you this isn’t working out.”

“This. This isn’t working out? What isn’t working out, Sherlock? You’ve hardly spoken a damn word to me in three months and when you do it’s “get out”? What the hell are you playing at?”

“John, I do hate to repeat myself. We, we are not working out. This arrangement is no longer suitable and I need you to go. As I said, you can have whatever you need from our joint account as Mycroft left us more than I can ever need on my own.”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You and Mycroft. Mycroft and Greg. What happened to Mycroft and Greg.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Greg died, Mycroft committed suicide. That has nothing to do with us. It is simply that what we have is no longer conducive to the Work, John.”

“Is it now? Fine, Sherlock. Fine.” Spinning on his heel, John headed to the door and grabbed his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Why do you care?” 

Sherlock stood at the window, heard the front door slam shut to the flat, and watched as the only person he cared about in the world disappeared around the corner.


	5. Ripped Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock really can be an idiot.

Sherlock’s world had been completely ripped apart by the death of Greg Lestrade.

He’d lost the only DI at the yard he really wanted to work with, the DI’s death had cost him the life of his brother, and though they’d never been close, at least it was comforting to have someone who understood him without the constant explanations. These things, in turn, had cost him John. He couldn’t put himself and John in the same position as Greg and Mycroft had found themselves. He knew, without a doubt, that he and his brother were too similar and his reaction to John’s death would be the exact same as Mycroft’s. Maybe not as deliberate, with a gun to the head, but instead his fall would be slow, a descent into the creamy world of cocaine and heroin, until finally, he took his last hit and there would be no one there to rescue him - because everyone who would want to rescue him would have gone before him. 

So he pushed John away, with as much force as he had used to push his way through the door to Mycroft’s flat. He had to. John didn’t deserve it. Hell, John should never have fallen in with the likes of one Sherlock Holmes in the first place. He was an intelligent, ex-drug addict with a predilection for danger and no sense of self-preservation or humility. He was not a good man. John was. John was a war hero, a loving man who had genuine concern for those around him, patience, and a sense of morality that at times befuddled Sherlock. How could someone like John want him, despite the dangers? Didn’t he see what had become of their closest friends? Did he not see the same fate for them? It was only a matter of time.

Sometime the next day, John had returned to the flat and collected a few belongings and then disappeared again without a word to Sherlock. He’d been at Bart’s at the time. No one seemed to know where John had gone, or at least they wouldn’t tell him. He supposed that was fair play since he had all but evicted John from their shared spare.

His mind was settled that he had done the right thing for them both, but his body and his heart ached with a pain that couldn’t be soothed no matter what he did. He had no one to turn to – Lestrade was gone, Mycroft lay beside him, and the one person he had left he had forced out. Maybe he would turn to the drugs anyway. 

Without John there seemed no point in living, but at least John was alive. At least they both were.


	6. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the feels...the boys make up, but Sherlock is the first one to go.

Days passed.

He spent three of them on the sofa.

No John. He sent a text but no answer.

_Please tell me that you are safe. Please. SH ___

__It was on day four he realized that he could track John through the debit card on their account. At least then he would know that John was safe. He traced the transactions to Lindisfarne, a tiny little island just off the coast of Northern England, only accessible by a road that materialized out of the sea during low tide. Typical John. A small place, very small, where he could be surrounded by locals, but yet seek solace in the relative calm that encapsulated the island.  
__

It was almost three weeks before John came home. He apparently gave it some thought that Sherlock could track him through the card on their account so he’d made a large cash withdrawal and that was that.

__John was sitting in his chair when Sherlock returned from the Yard late one afternoon. It took Sherlock completely off guard as he hadn’t seen a clue on his way up the stairs that John had returned. John, on the other hand, knew the moment that Sherlock stepped foot into the flat and was ready for him._ _

__“Sit down.”_ _

__“John…”_ _

__“Sit down, Sherlock.”_ _

__Sherlock crossed the room and took his place in his chair, facing John. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, palms down, and crossed his legs. He caught John’s eye, raised one eyebrow, and sat in silence, waiting._ _

__“I am not leaving, Sherlock. I’m not leaving the flat and I’m not leaving you.”_ _

__“John…”_ _

__“Shut up and listen. It’s not your turn to talk.”_ _

__Silence._ _

__“I waited, Sherlock. Waited for three months for you to tell me what was going on in your head. I waited for you to open up, in your own time. Instead, you told me to get out. I’m not stupid, Sherlock.”_ _

__Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but closed it quickly once he saw the “shut it” look on John’s face._ _

__“Look, I’ve figured it out. Sherlock Holmes is afraid that what happened to Greg and Mycroft will happen to us. I don’t know which frightens you more; that something will happen to me, or that you will take the same path as Mycroft.”_ _

__John paused, obviously given Sherlock a chance to reply or refute what he said. Sherlock simply dipped his head towards his chest, a clear indication to John that he’d nailed the problem._ _

__“I can’t promise you, Sherlock that I won’t die, just as you can’t promise me. But we can’t just give up on each other because of “what ifs”. That’s not your style, Sherlock. We are partners, in every sense of the word. We are already dependent on each other, whether you want to admit it or not. No, you’ve already admitted it by trying to push me away.”_ _

__“Now, we can either do this together as we were before, or we can go back to just our friendship, but there is no way I am leaving your side. You need me, Sherlock Holmes. And I need you.”_ _

__Sherlock stared. Had he been that transparent? Is this what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his deductions? He felt like John had reached out and yanked his heart right out of his chest, and was holding it up to the sun for the entire world to see. God it hurt._ _

__John sat, calmly, not moving a muscle, waiting. He knew Sherlock and he knew it would take the idiot genius a minute to catch up with John’s reasoning, because it took him longer to decipher the emotional content._ _

__If Sherlock were perfectly honest with himself, the last three weeks had been miserable. He needed John, it was true. When he spoke, it was softly and hesitantly, in a tone John rarely heard._ _

__“Mycroft told me once that caring is not an advantage. And he proved it. Look at what he did, because he couldn’t live without that idiot Lestrade. Moriarity is out for me, John, and I don’t want us to come to the same fate.” He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts, so he could convey to John what he’d held in for so long._ _

__“John, I know myself. I know that if Moriarity gets to me, it will be through you. I will not survive that, just as Mycroft could not survive Greg’s death. How can I let this continue, knowing that is a likely outcome?”_ _

__“First, Sherlock, I’m a willing partner in this. Do you not think that I’d already realized Moriarity’s plan for you after what happened at the pool? How could you think I’d abandon you to that maniac? I’m not leaving your side, so now it’s up to you whether that’s as your lover or your friend, but it will be one or the other.”_ _

__John rose from his chair, and made to go out of the room, pausing briefly and turning back to face Sherlock. “Don’t say you couldn’t survive without me; you are the strongest man I know, Sherlock Holmes, capable of great things, surviving me is the least of what you can accomplish with that giant brain of yours. It is me that may not be able to survive without you.”_ _

__***_ _

__John watched Sherlock as he stood on the top of St. Bart’s, phone pressed to his ear._ _

__“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?_ _

__“Do what?”_ _

__“This phone call, it’s…it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”_ _

__“Leave a note when?_ _

__“Goodbye, John.”_ _

__“No. Don’t…Sherlock!”_ _


End file.
